"The jinnee of the waste?" the Master answered, in a low tone. "What nonsense is this?"
"The simoom, Master—the storm of sand. We call it the work of evil spirits!"
The Master made no reply, save to command silence.
For a time nothing happened in the Arabs' camp. Then came a little stir, off there in the gloom. A sound of voices grew audible. The name of Allah drifted out of the all-enveloping night, to them, and that of his Prophet. A cry: "Ya Abd el Kadir—" calling on a patron saint, died before the last word, "Jilani," could find utterance. Then silence, complete and leaden, fell with uncanny suddenness.
The Master laughed, dryly. He touched Leclair's arm.
"Strong medicine for the Beni Harb, Lieutenant," said he. "Their own imams (priests) have strong medicine, too, but not so strong as that of the cursed sons of Feringistan. Sleep already lies heavy on the eyelids of these sons of Allah. And a deeper sleep shall soon overcome them. Tell me, Lieutenant, can you kill men wholesale?"
"Yes, my Captain."
"Sleeping men, who cannot resist you? Can you kill them scientifically, in masses, without anger?"
"How do you know now, my Captain, that it will not be in anger?" And the Frenchman half eased himself up on hands and knees, peering forward into the night. "After what these Beni Harb—or their close kin—have done to me and to poor Lebon—listen! What was that?"
"What do you mean?"